


so if you love me, come clean.

by ohyellowbird



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Charmie, Drinking, Jealousy, M/M, Maybe a little bit unhealthy, Smut, Unresolved Issues, established relationship kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: Timmy is getting ready for bed when there is a knock at the door. It's Armie and while Timmy is glad to see him, he also really isn't.





	so if you love me, come clean.

It’s nearly midnight and Timmy is salivating for his bed. He’s only been holding out on the couch for the last few hours so that when he finally slips beneath his sheets and drifts into a long, uninterrupted sleep it will be that much sweeter. 

For the first time in over a month, his tomorrow is empty. His alarms have all been switched off and his phone set to DND. Timmy is finally back home in his tiny New York apartment, away from all the prying eyes and lenses that come with his exhausting, wonderful job, and he is unbelievably ready to rest. Criminally overdue actually.

And In some universe, his night goes to plan. He finishes this last episode of Seinfeld and flops off the couch. He brews a mug of chamomile tea in the kitchen and retires to his room to sleep for a reasonable 12-18 hours.

But here, in this universe, right as Timmy is exiting out of Netflix and turning off his sound bar, there is a jarring _knock-knock-knock!_ at the front door.

His head snaps towards the sound, mouth open, gawping dumbly at the painted wood. _What the fuck?_ He pulls out his phone just to double check the time. No, yeah, it’s definitely too late for this.

Timmy rolls his lips over his teeth, staring at the wood, wishing for x-ray vision. He gives the room a cursory scan for possible bludgeoning tools. 

_Knock-knock-knock!_

Timmy startles. It’s an aggressive, expectant noise, that knock. “Yeah?” he calls out timidly, more than a little spooked. He has yet to move any nearer to the door, socked feet pulling distractedly at the area rug he’s stood on.

Then the door reveals its secrets. It talks. “Open up, jackass. It’s me.”

All of the breath in his lungs is stolen from him. Not for the first time, he is pierced clean through by that smooth, deep voice.

 _Armie_.

As if by command, he has jerked the door open without a moment’s hesitation to collect himself. He’s shaking. Who knew one sentence could so thoroughly dismantle him?

__Once the door swings back, Timmy’s eyes can confirm that his ears aren’t liars. Standing under the flickering spotlight in the hall towers all six feet five inches of Armie Hammer, grinning like a bastard in an absurdly expensive peacoat._ _

__“Timothée!”_ _

__Their hello hug is electrifying, 3000 volts to his system, Armie’s scent and warmth chest paddles that shock his heart into a new rhythm. He is as captivating as ever, a feast for all five senses._ _

__“Missed you dude,” Armie says against Timmy’s hair, and Timmy parrots him, eyes fisted shut, squeezing tight. But it’s over too soon, Armie releasing his hold with a firm pat between Timmy’s shoulder blades before he pushes past him and into the dark apartment._ _

__Timmy sways, one hand clamped around the door to swing it shut. He needs another jolt and fast, everything inside going dim again. His face feels numb, his head swims. It isn’t an unfamiliar feeling, the instant hangover. It happened the last time they saw each other and in a lesser form the few times before that._ _

__“How are you? Fill me in. What’s new? I saw your interview on _Quotidien._ Did you like my shout out?” _ _

__Timmy shuts the door. “Yeah, that was funny,” he says, slipping into something of smile and turning back into the room. Armie has already de-layered and is casually sprawled in a leather lounge chair, his legs spread wide enough that the outsides of his knees are kissing each armrest. He looks like a part of the decor he fits in so well, and where that sentiment might have tickled Timmy in the past, it almost irks him now. He grinds the meat of his cheek with his teeth. “Do you want something to drink?”_ _

__Armie laughs, loud and boisterous like a happy dog, firing off a text before burying his phone in his pocket. “Always.”_ _

__There isn’t much in the fridge. Timmy’s been traveling so often for Award season that it’d seemed pointless to stock up on anything when he wasn’t going to be home. He pushes past a few bags of expired veggies in the freezer, searching out a long-deserted bottle of whiskey that he vaguely remembers stashing a few months prior._ _

__“Need any help?” Armie calls from the other room after a minute or so. Timmy can imagine him restlessly bouncing his legs or chewing at a callous. So impatient, always wanting everything and _now.__ _

__At last, Timmy’s fingers scrabble over cold glass tucked way back behind the ice trays. “Nope.”_ _

__Quickly, he fills two clean glasses with Johnnie Walker Black and carries both out of the kitchen in one palm, the neck of the bottle clutched like a lifeline in his spare hand. If he’s lucky, it might wake him up or help Timmy to shake him of this funk. The thing is, he isn’t feeling all that lucky._ _

__“Fantastico!” Armie cheers when he reappears, standing to pluck the glasses safely from Timmy’s grip and arrange them on cork coasters over the coffee table. Naturally, he positions the one with an extra finger in front of himself._ _

__Timmy wavers on his feet, still holding the whiskey bottle, wondering if he should put it back, if this isn’t actually a completely shit idea after all._ _

__Armie looks up at him with clear blue eyes and a quirked brow. “What are you doing? Sit,” he demands, pointing at the nearest couch cushion with his chin._ _

__So Timmy does, tucking his feet up under himself as he reaches out for the second glass. He lifts it to his lips, about to take a sip when Armie _tsks_ him. Timmy looks up in question and sees Armie’s glass inches from his face. _ _

__“To you, Timmy Tim, and to this new year. May it be as fruitful for us as the last.”_ _

__Timmy snorts at the toast, “It’s February you weirdo,” but anyway they cheers, glasses clinking. He pulls down a mouthful, sits with the way it burns and then immediately draws in another, savoring the momentary distraction._ _

__It doesn’t last, doesn’t soothe the gnawing, nameless ache inside him for more than a paltry few seconds._ _

__“So,” Armie says around an ice cube, “You didn’t answer my question. What’s new? I feel like we didn’t really get to talk at the Beautiful Boy thing last month. You’re getting too cool for me, I told you this would happen.” His jaw snaps up, crushing the hunk of ice._ _

__Timmy rolls his eyes, feeling his face heat up. “Shut up.” He steals into his glass for another sip, and then another. Soon it’s empty and Armie is folding forward to refresh them both._ _

__It’s slow going, but eventually they fall into steady, shallow conversation, Timmy talking about what he’s been listening to on the road and the latest screenplays he’s been sent. Armie chases after each of his sentences with questions, gluttonous for Timmy’s words. It’s one of Timmy’s favorite things about him, among too many to count, how genuinely interested he is in other people, in _Timmy_. _ _

__But the back and forth is short-lived. When they’ve finished their second glasses and are well into their thirds, the stream of chatter dries to a trickle again. Timmy is beginning to feel warm all over, and loose, but he is also still tired and still unnameably sad. Restless, he crawls out of his sweatshirt, yanks at the neck of his tee to stretch it away from his throat. Armie clocks the movement, his heavy gaze only making Timmy burn hotter._ _

__Armie has the mouth of a predator, he thinks idly; his plush lips are constantly parted and framing the threat of sharp, white teeth. Just then, a pink peek of tongue darts out and wets his lower lip. Lust pulls at Timmy like a hook in his gut._ _

__He coughs out the sudden, searing impulse to pour himself over the armrest and into Armie’s lap. “Can you see what the thermostat is on? It’s freakin’ hot, I’m sweating.”_ _

__It takes a moment for his words to cross the distance between them, Armie still staring for a long moment before recognition stirs his features. He twists in his seat to look, narrowing his eyes at the tiny white box near the door. “My eyes are shit. Seventy?”_ _

__Timmy exhales, shifting in his seat. “Mm, nevermind then. I’ll leave it.”_ _

__“How many have you had?”_ _

__“Huh?”_ _

__Armie laughs again, the sound deep and full and raising the tiny hairs on the back of Timmy’s neck. “That’s what I thought. Slow down, buddy.”_ _

__Buddy - he hates that. And the fact that he is so easily affected by Armie, that those months in Crema (and the few incidents after) have so finely trained his body to want and respond to this man. This magnetic, _married_ man. This thing with Armie, whatever the fuck it can be called, it’s Pavlovian. For him anyway._ _

__Timmy swirls his whiskey. “Ok Dad,” he says flatly, and inwardly delights at the way it makes Armie sour. His panting, predatory smile wilts and he sets his glass down next to its prescribed coaster. Yanking on the arms of his chair, he drags it and himself closer, sits more upright._ _

__“Hey, what’s wrong? You’ve seemed off all night. I thought maybe I was just imagining it, but no. Something’s going on, tell me.”_ _

__Timmy simmers, still curled up into the side of the couch, holding onto his glass with both hands. The alcohol in his veins and maybe his lack of sleep is pushing him towards a confrontation he hadn’t been entirely aware he’s itching for. Silence passes in long stretches until, at last, he asks “What are you doing here?” with a crooked tight-lipped smile._ _

__Armie falters, eyebrows knitting together as he does some quick mental math that must not add up because then he’s searching Timmy’s features for a clue. “I was in town, I wanted to see you,” he says plainly. “Is that a crime?”_ _

__“Yes,” Timmy deadpans, “I’m calling the police.”_ _

__When Timmy doesn’t laugh at his own barb, Armie breathes out a gust of wind and lifts his palms in surrender. “You’ve gotta give me a vowel, Timmy. I’m lost here. Did I do something?”_ _

__A part of Timmy wants to wipe the soft, worried look from Armie’s handsome face, but a bigger part of him is spurred on by it, abruptly incensed at the fact that he is such a pretender. “Oh, don’t give me that,” he sighs meanly, pushing himself out of his seat to stand in the small space between the sofa and the coffee table, careful to be well out of Armie’s reach. “I hate it when you do this. Back to square one, every single time. You’re exhausting.”_ _

__“What are you---”_ _

__“ _Don’t._ ”_ _

__The pointed blade of his tone has Armie up on his feet then too, a cross between worry and anger storming over the blue of his eyes. Timmy takes one look at him, huge hands flexing in and out of fists at his sides, and turns. He drops his glass onto the couch and disappears back towards his bedroom, heart thumping, breath snared in the back of his throat. “I think you should probably go. This isn’t a good time.”_ _

__He makes it inside but there are heavy footfalls at his heels and before Timmy can get the door fully closed Armie is wrenching his way inside. “Hey!” he shouts, and then exhales, slow, trying to recapture some semblance of calm. “Don’t shut me out. What’s the matter? Talk to me, please.”_ _

__Timmy’s body reacts like he’s scared. A wave of nausea crashes over him and his hands begin to go numb. He can’t face Armie right now, tangled in the undertow. He’s lost his footing. _Armie is always treating him this way, with miles of pretense, making Timmy fight through it to get to anything real. It’s only now that he’s seeing it for what it truly is. Not caution or care, but self-preservation. He keeps Timmy at an arm's’ length with the false front of being bros until Armie can take from him without risk. Platonic hugs and empty words when they see each other. Texts late at night about something funny he read when it’s obvious he’s missing Timmy. Slowly, it’s starved him, this behavior. He sees it so clearly, the rationale behind his mood._ _ _

__Timmy pushes uselessly at the door before maneuvering further into his room, past his rolling chair and the pile of books teetering on its seat. A framed photo of himself, Armie, and Luce from Créma mocks him on the desk. He turns it over, and in doing so grips the corner hard enough that it whines and cracks. Frame broken, the glass pane slides out of place, scratching over loose change on his desk and toppling a pot of ink. Timmy glares at the mess he’s made, melancholy flooding in to temper some of his anger. There’s this mess on his table and then there’s the walking, breathing mess at the threshold to his room. And in part, they’re both his fault. He’s let this go on for too long._ _

__“Just...I’m not feeling good, okay?” Timmy mumbles hopelessly, “I’m tired. Maybe we can grab lunch tomorrow if you’re still in town.” When there is no immediate response, he looks up, preparing himself for the hurt that will surely be stamped on Armie’s face. But Armie isn’t looking back, he’s staring at the far side of Timmy’s room by the window. After a second, he also walks that way, moving slowly. Timmy watches passively, only registering what it is he’s after in the moment before Armie grabs hold of it._ _

__His stomach drops out. He wants to retch._ _

__Long fingers close around the hem of a lavender sweater with pearls sewn into its peter pan collar._ _

__“What is this?”_ _

__The room warbles like he’s underwater. Three whiskeys without dinner was a bad idea. Letting Armie back here was a bad idea. This entire evening has become a seven-layer dip of bad ideas and Timmy just needs it to be over._ _

__He licks his lips, waiting until Armie’s attention is on him again to speak. “It’s a sweater,” he says in a small, resigned voice, surrendering fully to the current of the night, allowing it to carry him to ruin._ _

__Armie pins him with a look that would be stricken if it weren’t so well coated in scorn. His jaw flinches. “No shit. Whose is it?”_ _

__Timmy folds his arms and shrugs. “Does it matter?”_ _

__“Fuck you. You know it matters. Whose sweater is this, Tim?” Behind the anger, Armie’s voice is beginning to splinter._ _

__The alcohol that has been steadily lowering his inhibitions threatens to let a waterfall of restrained hostility spill out into the room, and actually, Timmy is glad for it. He hopes the dam breaks, hopes that the resulting onslaught drowns them both. “Her name is Megan,” he says breezily. “She’s cool.”_ _

__Armie laughs then, but it is nothing like his merry barks from earlier. It is a dark, joyless sound meant to wound. “I can’t fucking believe you.”_ _

__And it’s that intention to shame that ultimately smashes the dam set up in Timmy's chest. All of the rage and hurt and resentment he’d been carrying around these last bursts out. Everything goes red._ _

__“You don’t get to say that,” Timmy seethes, choking on his words in his hurry to expel them. Without realizing, he has crawled up onto his mattress between them and is now shoving hard at Armie’s chest, feet sinking into his duvet. “You asshole! You can’t come here with your _‘Hey! Just a pal here to see his pal’_ bullshit and then act like I’m a dick for trying to exist outside of the farce you’ve trapped me in.”_ _

__Armie’s back is crushing against the window blinds over and over again as Timmy pushes at him. He takes it for longer than most people would, his expression stony, almost foreign. “So that’s your motive here? You’re trying to get back at me for being married?”_ _

__And that’s missing the mark by so much that Timmy wants to punch him in the nose, wants to hear it break against his knuckles and bleed. “God, you’re stupid. No. There’s no motive. Unless you count me wanting to be sane without you around a motive.” He speaks through bared teeth, both hands twisting in the front of Armie’s white t-shirt. “If I was depending on you for the entirety of my romantic life, I’d be a fucking priest basically. I barely see you. I barely hear from you. So you don’t get to do that - you can’t just, just expect for me to lay in wait until I fit into your busy schedule. I’m not your boyfriend.”_ _

__Armie snatches Timmy’s wrists out of the air then, clutching them in the narrow space between their heaving chests. He holds them too tightly, commanding Timmy’s eyes. “Aren’t you?” he asks, gaze bouncing from green to green._ _

__The tears form and fall in seconds. Timmy squints against them, desperate to pull out of Armie’s grip and run, but he isn’t strong enough, not by a longshot. “No,” he spits, sniffling. “You don’t treat a boyfriend the way you treat me, waltzing into my apartment all buddy-buddy, never saying anything that matters, patting me on the back at events only to wander off with Liz before we’ve had a chance to even talk.”_ _

__“She’s my wife,” Armie pleads, “come on, Timmy.”_ _

__Timmy squirms, wanting free. “I know that,” he huffs, twisting. He loses balance and falls back, lands atop the mattress. Armie bends down towards him but is stopped by Timmy’s foot charging out against the center of his chest to still him. “You don’t think I know that? I do, and I know that you love her. Fuck, _I_ love her. She’s great. I haven’t once asked you to leave her, have I? But there just. There isn’t room in there, okay?” He pushes his palm into the place where Armie’s heart is hidden beneath fabric and muscle and bone. “You need to let me off the hook.”_ _

__Armie’s hands wrap around the slender knot of Timmy’s ankle, all of his anger concerning the sweater suddenly burnt away like fog in the sun. “ _There is,_ ” he stresses with wet lashes and shining eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t even fucking think it because there is.” His weight bears down like he wants to reach Timmy, but Timmy locks his knee, setting up his other leg to hold Armie back._ _

__“I don’t think so.” His voice is sticky in his throat, sodden with tears. Armie’s grip on him tightens, turns desperate. “So please, you have to let me go.”_ _

__“No,” Armie rushes out firmly, “no.” A tear, and then another trip down the sharp plane of his cheek. They leave tiny marks on Timmy’s grey sweatshirt. “I’ve been negligent, I realize that now,” he confesses, “But Timmy. Baby. Listen to me.”_ _

___That isn’t playing fair._ _ _

__Timmy heaves a wet breath. “Don’t call me that,” he whispers defiantly, but Armie sees it for what it is. A chink in his armor. He releases Timmy’s ankle to hook both hands behind his knees, pressuring them to bend, just enough so that Armie can fold down his legs and reach him. “Stop,” Timmy sighs just before Armie manages it and drops to his own knees on the hardwood, Timmy's thighs against his ribcage, positioned almost like he’s praying._ _

__Armie props himself with an elbow next to Timmy’s arm, close enough to kiss now and that’s exactly what Timmy’s traitorous body begins singing for. Armie drags his thumb over the cut of Timmy’s cheekbone and stares down at his lips, but he doesn’t press in. “I love you,” he says like it’d kill him if he didn't say them, those three words that he’s whispered only once before, when they were fucking during the press tour in Paris, with his mouth on Timmy’s ear and his cock up his ass. “I love her, yes, and probably always will - and I'm sorry that it hurts you sometimes. But I love _you_ too. So much. I hate myself for letting you think otherwise. I’m an idiot.”_ _

__Despite himself, Timmy laughs. “You are,” he agrees, turning to wipe his nose on his own shoulder. Armie’s thumb wipes through the wetness under one eye and then downward to ghost around the shape of Timmy’s mouth, tracing the slope of his cupid’s bow. “I’m not a plaything.”_ _

__Armie’s ministrations cease. “I know you’re not.”_ _

__“And you can’t treat me like your bro when it’s just the two of us. It’s a fucked up charade. It’s like I have to coerce you into liking me again every time I see you.”_ _

__“I know, fuck. I’m sorry. I won’t.”_ _

__“Have the balls to what you fucking mean, okay?”_ _

__That earns him a scowl. “Easy.”_ _

__“I’m serious.” Timmy bites Armie’s thumb and spits it out. “Text me that you miss me if you miss me. Find time to be alone with me at work things, even if it’s just for a minute. Kiss me hello instead of those shitty no-homo hugs. If you can’t do that kinda stuff…”_ _

__“I will,” Armie vows, cutting him off, “I promise. You mean too much to me.”_ _

__The conviction in his tone is almost palpable, his need for Timmy to believe him. Timmy can taste it on his next breath._ _

__“I really, really want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?” Armie asks him after a few seconds of quiet, and unconsciously he ruts forward slightly, knees still on the floor but tall enough to cover Timmy almost completely on the bed._ _

__Timmy doesn’t answer right away. He simply looks at him, peeling back the layers in Armie’s expression. Love. Want. Inebriation. Worry. Shame. They must all be present in some variation on his own face, though in different measurements._ _

__“I’m tired,” he says at last, because it’s true and because he wants to see the flare of disappointment on Armie’s face. Armie, who wets his predator’s mouth before nodding gently and submitting._ _

__“Let’s go to bed, yeah?” He backpedals. “...if I can stay.”_ _

__Timmy rolls his eyes, releasing a staggered breath of relief. “You can stay.”_ _

__

__Fifteen minutes later they are both under the blankets in Timmy’s bed, two cups of water on his bedside table, and the lights are off._ _

__They get into bed at the same time, bare except for underwear. Timmy does his level best to hook his eyes elsewhere as he climbs in. But even out of focus, Armie showing that much skin is a siren’s call._ _

__Timmy lays on his side, looking past his dented blinds and out the window into the dark. Late night New York is a muffled symphony. It must be nearly two by now. Maybe even later. He feels better, but wonders if this blowout will end up being a big step for them or simply a band-aid. Anyway, it is a question for tomorrow, his head still soggy with Johnnie Walker and exhaustion._ _

__The atmosphere is no longer tense, but fragile. They are both wary to disturb these early moments of peacetime._ _

__Armie starts out on his back, but after a few minutes of settling in he rolls over, spoons up closer to Timmy and curves a cautious hand around his waist. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice stirring the hair covering Timmy’s ears. “Tomorrow, let’s go to that café on the corner, the one with the little blue umbrellas outside and the insane apricot scones. I want to catch up for real, wanna hear about everything. I don’t have anything until later. A photo shoot is all.”_ _

__“Kay. Goodnight, Armie.” His foot stretches back, finds Armie’s and anchors them together._ _

__They go quiet after that, the room is dark and still except for the measured sounds of the pair of them breathing._ _

__Timmy closes his eyes, pushes his thoughts out towards a script he’d been reading in the last few days, tries to remember how it starts. He’s been craving this since dinner, finally getting into bed, but sleep evades him now that Armie is present, set up as a warm, solid line behind him. His desire doesn’t have an off switch. It buzzes like a swarm of bees in the cage of his chest._ _

__Sometime further into the night, Timmy isn’t sure how much later it is - there’s no clock on this side of the bed - Armie’s velvet whisper rustles against the shell of his ear._ _

__“I hate that someone else’s mouth was on you.”_ _

__Half of Timmy thrills that Armie is still awake, but the other half bristles. He tenses up to turn back and snap at him - _he has no right_ \- but gives pause when Armie’s grip around his waist smoothes lower and he speaks again. _ _

__“It isn’t fair,” he says in that same hushed tone, “I know, I’m a dick. But I’m jealous. I don’t want people walking around with the knowledge of what you look like when you cum.” His lips brush against the soft patch of skin just behind Timmy’s ear. “It's fucking me up.”_ _

__Timmy can see Armie’s gentle kiss behind his eyelids, bioluminescent love touching down against his neck and bleeding outwards, down his arms and into his fingertips, the very ends of his hair, his entire body stirring._ _

__Armie must sense that he is awake then because wordlessly he moves in, sealing himself up against the long line of Timmy's back, his bent legs fitting into the grooves of Timmy’s so that there is next to nothing between them anymore._ _

__Timmy hisses involuntarily at the sudden contact, overwhelmed. If he were tinged neon by that ghosted kiss, he is absolutely glowing now. “Now you know how it feels,” he whispers meanly, annoyed with how affected he sounds, “Sucks, huh?”_ _

__Armie’s hand curls over the sharp jut of Timmy’s hipbone, his thumb digging into the meat of Timmy’s flank. He kneads the muscle there, clearly frustrated. “Don’t let anyone else in your bed,” he pleads quietly, his voice a desperate rumble against Timmy’s nape. His lips plant kisses there while his hips roll forward._ _

__‘ _Fuck,_ ” Timmy exhales, leaning back into Armie’s gentle thrusting. He reaches down for Armie’s wrist and squeezes, fingernails leaving crescent bites._ _

__Armie puts his mouth against the top stair of Timmy’s spine, breathes hot and wet against his skin, eye teeth pressing in. “Please,” he begs, “don’t touch anyone but me.”_ _

__Timmy moans despite himself, wanting to be angry with Armie’s hypocritical possessiveness but finding that currently, he is truly incapable of it. He is only mortal, only has a finite supply of willpower, and right now Armie’s cock is hard and nestled in against his ass. Timmy grinds back against it and Armie curses, his hand deserting Timmy’s hip in favor of his jaw._ _

__“Can I kiss you?” he asks lowly, drawing Timmy’s face towards the ceiling, leaning over Timmy’s shoulder. His voice is wrecked, his pupils blown._ _

__Evidence of Timmy’s power over Armie is everywhere, in his eyes, in his cock, swollen and hot against Timmy, in his vice-like grip around Timmy's angled jaw. Maybe they are both predators, only he wears better camouflage._ _

__Timmy’s answer is his mouth, crushing against Armie’s as he whirls to face him. He gets a leg over Armie’s hip and drags him in with it, fingers splayed against his chest hair. “You make me fucking crazy,” Timmy growls, feeds the words directly to him. “You know that?”_ _

__Armie winds a hand into Timmy’s mop of hair, drags his teeth over Timmy’s reddened lower lip. “Believe me, the feeling’s mutual,” he huffs, humor melding with want as Timmy rolls on top of him, pinning Armie in a straddle. “I thought you were tired.”_ _

__“Shut up,” Timmy grins, breathless and folding back over to continue kissing. He cuts his hips down and away, dragging moan after moan from Armie until they are stayed by large hands._ _

__“You’re gonna kill me,” Armie hisses, all the air punched out of him when Timmy snakes a hand down to cup his cock through soft, black fabric._ _

__“Good.”_ _

__“Not good,” he argues, swatting Timmy’s hand away so that he has room to free them both from their elastic waistbands. Timmy feels himself shorting out then because Armie’s calloused palm brushes over his dick. And before he’s has had time to power back online, Armie’s hand is wrapping around them both._ _

__Timmy’s mouth drops open and he adjusts his position, back hunched so that he can watch as their cockheads appear and disappear in the big circle of Armie’s fist. He stares, mesmerized, hips jumpy, Armie’s thighs flexing underneath him. It starts slow, more teasing than anything, but very quickly Armie begins working them over with intent, his spare hand clamped around Timmy’s thigh just above his knee._ _

__When Timmy lifts his gaze, Armie’s eyes are hooded and trained on his face. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he pants, plucking Timmy’s lip with his fingers and dragging him down for a kiss._ _

__Timmy sighs against Armie’s lips, blissed out and drunker than he’s been all night. He pulls off of Armie’s mouth to scrape his tongue against the rough stubble on his face, against the soft buzz of his hair. “I wish you were fucking me,” Timmy confesses against his temple, “I miss it.”_ _

__Armie groans like he’s been hit, hips bucking up against the backs of Timmy's thighs. The rhythm of his hand speeds up, falters. But it’s more than enough. Timmy can feel himself hurtling towards climax. His toes curl into the blanket and he whines, slack-jawed against Armie’s cheek, breathing wetly into his ear. It all feels like _too much-too much-too much-perfect.__ _

__They cum one after the other, the messes slick between their bodies. Timmy cries out nonsense, but on Armie’s lips is his name. “Oh, god. Timmy, oh fuck,” he keens, finding Timmy’s mouth and sealing it into the approximation of kiss, his hand fitted neatly around the side of Timmy’s narrow throat._ _

__Eventually, when he’s jelly-legged and mindless, Timmy slips off of Armie and onto his back beside him. He kicks up a blanket from the foot of the bed and carelessly wipes at his navel before handing it over. Sleepiness has settled resolutely into his bones once more._ _

__Armie doesn’t let him cool down for long, tipping over onto his side and reeling Timmy in against him when they’re still sweaty. He’s breathing easier when he nuzzles close to kiss Timmy’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, his mouth again._ _

__“I’m not just a plaything,” Timmy says, a recall from earlier, but more because it bears repeating than because he needs the reassurance._ _

__Armie tucks a curl of damp hair behind Timmy's hair and asks for his eyes, does not speak until he has them. “I love you,” he says very seriously. His hand navigates the blankets for Timmy’s, their fingers locking together once he’s found it. “I love you, I love you, _I love you._ ”_ _

__And deep down, underneath all of the nerves and angst, Timmy knows. It’s why he puts up with so much, why he hasn’t loaned his heart out to Megan or anyone else that he’s passed the time with during the long intervals alone. He just wants to be loved a little better._ _

__He kisses Armie soundly and shuts his eyes, so ready for those 12-18 hours of unconsciousness. “Yeah, yeah, I love you too.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> my apologies if this was rusty as hell. i haven't written anything in ages. 
> 
> i just really love CMBYN, Timmy & Armie, and angst. so this was bound to happen eventually.
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
> i am ohhyellowbird on tumblr. 
> 
> the title comes from a flatsound song of the same name.


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